


Turn and Face the Strange

by Writcraft



Series: Rainy Weekend Prompts [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1970s, Class Differences, Coming Out, Coming of Age, First Kiss, Frottage, Getting Together, Inspired by Music, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Money Troubles, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22989766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Remus has been feeling increasingly disconnected from his friends. When he visits James one evening, new revelations bring them closer together than ever before.
Relationships: Remus Lupin/James Potter
Series: Rainy Weekend Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649929
Comments: 13
Kudos: 170





	Turn and Face the Strange

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaulaMcG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaulaMcG/gifts).



> Written for PaulaMcG who requested Remus Lupin/James Potter and 'Music' as part of my Rainy Weekend Prompt series. I know Remus is your favourite so I hope I've done him justice and you enjoy my version of him. I loved writing this, thank you for such a fab prompt!
> 
> Title is from 'Changes' by David Bowie.

The floor is strewn with vinyl covers, records and some odd socks. A half-finished bottle of Ogden’s sits next to a crumpled pack of Players and an ashtray that looks like it’s from a Muggle pub. James probably nicked it after a night out with Sirius, together with the handful of beermats on the table advertising Tetley’s, Harp and Banks’ Mild. Despite the mess, the Muggle flat James moved into after the war is much nicer than the bedsit Remus lives in with brusque housemates that leave piles of dirty pans in the sink and never bother to say hello. 

The air fills with the light haze of smoke and the sharp scent of alcohol, their silence soundtracked by Pink Floyd spinning on the record player. Remus only smokes on nights like this, when he visits James. It reminds him of Hogwarts when he, James, Sirius and Peter would pass a cigarette back and forth between them. They would watch the stars, stretched out on the grass. On those nights, they were invincible. 

It used to be so easy, to be around his friends. They could talk for hours, sitting in their pyjamas and eating chocolate frogs late into the night. Those were the times when Remus had hopes and dreams, before rejection letter after rejection letter piled up next to unpaid bills. The money from James helps to keep Remus afloat, but taking it is unbearably awkward. 

When James opened the door wearing a new Sex Pistols t-shirt and Levis, Remus felt a sting of self-consciousness caused by his own shabby charity shop blazer and the tan satchel he’s had since he was eleven years old. The sting turned into something sharper when James mentioned bumping into Joe Strummer from The Clash at Dingwalls last weekend. Remus wasn’t even invited. He knows it’s probably because his friends wanted to save him the embarrassment of saying he can’t afford it, but it doesn’t help. For months he’s had a queer sensation deep in the pit of his belly, increasingly out of sorts and unsure of himself around his rich, confident friends. 

The longer Remus spends on his own, the easier it becomes to convince himself his friends don’t invite him out because they just don’t want him around. He imagines how it must be for them when he carefully counts the pennies in his wallet and tries to make a warm pint of lager stretch out for as long as possible. They always offer to buy him drinks, but it ends with a tense, uncomfortable silence as Remus mutters about being able to pay his own way, something they all know isn’t true. Of all the things that could have driven a wedge into their tight-knit group it seems so soulless that it’s money, widening the gulf between them.

“Fancy listening to Bowie?” James doesn’t wait for a response, sitting up on his knees and flicking through his extensive vinyl collection. He has all the latest music. Remus doesn’t have record player yet, although he’s been saving for one. He buys records one at a time on special occasions like his birthday, in anticipation of the day he'll be able to play them in a house of his own. He spends weeks deciding which one he wants and keeps them under his bed in protective plastic, taking them out sometimes to read the inserts cover to cover.

“I like this one.” Remus hums as the music starts to play. James stretches out next to him, their heads close together on the floor. He smells like soap and rich, musky cologne. His proximity sends a thrill through Remus, which he swallows back. “Ziggy Stardust.”

“Yeah.” James sings along—one of the few things he’s bad at—before lighting a cigarette and passing it to Remus. They listen to Bowie in silence and Remus breathes the smoke out through a small _o_ of his lips. It’s comfortable. It’s almost like old times until James breaks the silence, his voice quiet with concern. “Are we still friends?”

“Of course.” The reply comes easily to Remus, even if he isn’t sure of the truth of it anymore. There’s a strangeness in his heart he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to explain to James, or Sirius and Peter for that matter. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I don’t know.” James blows out a thin line of smoke and he nudges Remus with his elbow. “You’re never around anymore.”

“I’m around now,” Remus points out. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Padfoot thinks I’m working for the other side.”

“He does not,” James scoffs. “Not really. You know what he’s like.”

“I used to.” Remus shrugs. He sits up, leaning over James to stub out the cigarette. He moves to look at the records, running his fingers over them. There are so many. So many records, so many songs. He hates that it makes him envious, reminding him of the things he doesn't have. “Can we put this on?”

“Fleetwood Mac?” James pulls a face. He’s always preferred the heavy clash of guitars and the sounds of the feverish punk that gripped Britain over the last couple of years. “If you want.”

“I like them.” Remus isn’t sure why he feels guilty about that. Everything’s so _weird_ with James now, so fucked up and strange. He carefully adjusts the arm on the player until the needle’s in the right place and Landslide begins to play. He settles next to James again, their shoulders brushing. “How’s Lily?”

“Fine.” James doesn’t sound so sure. “We’re not really seeing much of each other at the minute. It’s complicated.”

“What’s complicated about it?”

“This and that.” James refuses to elaborate, but Remus can hazard a guess. He’s seen the way James can be with his friends. There’s no room for anyone else. Remus isn't even sure there's room for him anymore. “We’ll work things out, we always do.”

Remus nods, closing his eyes and listening to the lyrics. _I’ve been afraid of changing because I’ve built my life around you_. It makes him melancholy. It brings back lazy summer days and the sweetness of treacle tart with custard. The room fills with them, those young boys with the world at their feet. Their chatter and laughter echoes like ghosts. The Marauders. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Remus has built his whole life around his friendships and he doesn't know how he could be without them, if they ever fell apart. 

“I don’t want to grow up,” Remus says. The song skips, jumps and moves on to the next. “I hate it when things end.”

“I know.” James is quiet. His fingers slide against Remus’ hand. It’s a strange, intimate touch that Remus doesn’t know what to do with. His hand trembles as he tips his palm upwards. His breath shakes from his parted lips as James clasps his hand, their fingers lacing together. “Growing up is hard. Everything’s so confusing.”

“I’m—” Remus stops. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, with James Potter holding his hand. How do you articulate something you don’t have the words for? “I’ve been feeling so strange lately.”

“Is it your furry little problem?” James sounds amused, but there’s no mockery in his words. He squeezes his hand around Remus’, his palm sweaty and hot. “Full moon soon, isn’t it?”

“Not for a while.” Remus shakes his head and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. “It’s not that,” he whispers. “It’s something else.”

“Oh.” James is quiet. “Can I do something?”

“You’re James Potter,” Remus replies. He keeps his eyes shut, closed tightly against the world. He hopes the darkness might stave off the pain of knowing that any moment now James is going to let go of his hand and he’ll be lost again. “You can do whatever you like. Since when do you need to ask my permission for anything?”

“Since this,” James says.

The press of his mouth is so unexpected, Remus freezes. He doesn’t know how to respond to James, whose lips are damp and warm. He kisses like he’s asking a question, the gentle pressure of his mouth more tentative than anything James has ever done. Remus blinks his eyes open as James moves away, flopping onto his back again and flinging his arm over his eyes. His cheeks are red, his chest rising and falling.

“Shit. I’m so fucking sorry, Moony. I know you’re not like that. Not bent, not—”

“Was that a test?” Fury growls through Remus and he sits up, the crack and tear of his life ripping apart a deafening noise in his ears. “You thought I’d—that I’m—?”

“I don’t know what I thought.” James moves his arm at last, his neck and cheeks flushed. “It wasn’t a test. What kind of person do you think I am? I wouldn’t _care_ , you’re a fucking werewolf and I’ve never bothered about that, do you think I’d just—?”

James is angry, his breathing jagged and heavy. Remus doesn’t think he’s ever seen James this thrown. If James wasn’t testing Remus, that must mean he wanted to do it. The possibility is so unexpected that Remus doesn’t know how to respond. He lies back down and blinks at the ceiling, the sounds of Fleetwood Mac suddenly too soft, too quiet. 

“Put on something loud,” Remus begs. His voice is rough, like shattered things. He sits up and pulls off his blazer, throwing it carelessly on the sofa before stretching out on the floor again. The room is too small and hot for it now. “I don’t care what you pick, as long as it’s noisy.”

James—more uncertain than Remus has ever seen him—moves to the record player. Remus props himself up on his elbow and watches James select a vinyl, taking it out of the cover with trembling fingers. He settles the needle in place and the speakers blare with the instantly familiar ‘Cretin Hop.’ Remus might have known James would choose the Ramones. It’s far from the heaviest album in his collection, but _Rocket to Russia_ takes him instantly back to the days when their time at Hogwarts drew to an end.

It seems apt that of all albums it should be this one. The memory of ‘Sheena Is A Punk Rocker’ spinning on the common room gramophone fills Remus’ senses. His cheek works as thinks of Sirius laughing and Peter throwing a crumpled ball of parchment at his head as he tried to finish his homework. Remus remembers James, too. The wide smile, messy shock of hair and the clench of his thighs around a broom. He’s always been able to carry himself with such easy confidence. He’s always been so attractive, so _handsome_. Handsome enough to make Remus’ stomach squirm in that final year. The Ramones take him back to it. He remembers the hopelessness of it all and the restlessness of the euphoria that always felt as fleeting as a quick burst of laughter after a particularly good joke.

“Now what?” James stretches out beside Remus again. His tone has lost its usual swagger. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I thought you were making fun of me,” Remus interrupts. “I thought you knew something and you wanted to test me to see if you were right. I imagine you all gossip about it, sometimes. Do you?”

“No,” James replies. His lips press together, his expression gloomy. “No gossip. No jokes. No test. But thanks very much for thinking I’d do that to you.”

Taking a breath, Remus leans down. He presses his mouth gently against James’ lips. It’s his first kiss, not that James knows that. Peter called Remus a late bloomer once and he had to make up a story about a pretty witch from Dublin before it stuck, although he's never been certain anyone believed him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s counting on James to help him work it out. 

He doesn’t expect the way James grips and surges, like an elastic band that’s been stretched tight and finally released. Remus opens his mouth to it, moving over James and letting sensation overwhelm him. It’s not so difficult, kissing. With James, it’s the easiest thing in the world. They find a good way to grind, press and rub; a way to hold one another close through the messy kisses and the desperate puffs of air. They put their hands everywhere they can reach, searching over clothes and boldly slipping under them for the barest moment, to touch a hot sliver of torso and the light trails of hair leading from the bellybutton down. 

Remus is surprised by his own confidence and the way James is less certain of things, an unexpected shift in the balance between them. James is sweet and eager, his mouth urgent and wet, his fingers never losing that tremble as he learns the lines of Remus’ body over the seams of his jeans and the creases of his t-shirt. They finish without properly touching one another in the places that still seem off limits. The slant and push of their bodies together and the pleasure of heated, forbidden kisses is enough. When it’s over they both catch their breath, blinking at the ceiling. Remus is sticky and sweaty, and James is gorgeously rumpled. Remus takes an unsteady breath.

“Do you have to get back?” There’s a note of hope in James’ voice.

“To my grotty bedsit in Canning Town?” Remus laughs and it breaks the lingering tension between them. “I’m always desperate to go back there. I’ve got half a tin of beans in, if someone hasn’t pinched it.”

“Stay?” James touches Remus’ hand, the brush of fingertips soft and warm. “We can order pizza later.”

“If you want.” Remus shifts, reaching for the Ogden’s. He takes a sip and lets the burn of it slide down his throat, steadying his racing heart. “Can you put on _Dark Side of The Moon_?”

“I might have guessed you’d like that one.” James does what Remus calls his _wolfy face_ , which makes them laugh again.

James changes the record and turns the volume up. He snatches the Ogden’s back and takes a healthy swig, before settling next to Remus. They listen to the familiar music, passing another cigarette back and forth between them.

“Moony—” James sounds hesitant, his voice faltering. “I don’t know how to be who I am.”

“That’s okay,” Remus replies. “Neither do I.”

When the kisses begin again the gulf between them that seemed so insurmountable narrows and closes, and with each new discovery their whispers fall around them like songs.


End file.
